


somewhere, somehow

by placentalmammal



Category: Friends at the Table (Podcast)
Genre: 5 Times, Almost Kiss, Angst and Feels, Drunken Confessions, F/F, First Kiss, Fluff, Medical Procedures, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-05
Updated: 2017-06-09
Packaged: 2018-11-09 12:12:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11104353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/placentalmammal/pseuds/placentalmammal
Summary: Five times Hella Varal didn't kiss Adaire Ducarte (and one time she did.)





	1. (in the woods, on the riverbank)

**Author's Note:**

> ~~First two chapters posted Monday 6/5. Remaining chapters will be posted, two at time, MWF of this week. Tags will be amended after each update.~~
> 
> All done!

Throndir is a poor hunter. He’s too tender-hearted to stalk prey, too gentle to bring down an animal for the sake of filling his own belly. Left to his own devices, he subsists off roots and leaves, like some kind of overgrown rabbit.

Vegetarianism is all fine and well, Hella supposes, but she is _hungry_ and there aren’t enough leaves in the world to sustain her. It’s hunt or butcher one of the horses, and Hadrian isn’t about to let her eat any part of their baggage train.

“He’s worried you’ll get ideas,” says Adaire, straight-faced. “A mule today, a paladin tomorrow—”

Hella can’t suppress a grin. “Stop talking,” she says, pretending to be irritated. “You’re going to scare off the game.”

Adaire huffs in irritation, breath clouding at her lips. She’s dressed for the weather in wool and furs, high collar turned up to protect her neck from the cold. Her boots, however, are entirely unsuitable for trekking though the snowy woods, and she has begun to lag behind. Hella slows her pace automatically, taking one step for every three of Adaire’s.

“I don’t think there’s any game left,” she mutters, rubbing her mittened hands together. “Just rabbits and those stupid songbirds.”

The birds are the only animals that refuse to acknowledge the winter. When the first moon rises to break the dark, the birds sing to herald the false dawn. And during the bright hours, they flit through the bare branches of dying trees, their brilliant, summery plumage stark against the grey bark.

Hella looks appraisingly at one of the sad, abandoned nests. “You could eat a songbird, I bet.” She has a borrowed bow at the ready, but an arrow wouldn’t do much good against a songbird. You’d need a net, a spear.

“I don’t think it’d be worth it,” says Adaire. “They’re just morsels. Not even a mouthful.” She hugs herself for warmth and stamps her feet to knock the snow off her boots. Somewhere overhead, a green-grey bird takes flight, calling out in alarm. Its shrill cries startle an entire flock from a nearby tree, and a dozen birds take to the air at once. Their iridescent feathers shine like malachite in the watery sunlight.

“Look what you did,” says Hella crossly, letting her arrow fall from the string. “Now I’ll never know how those things taste.”

“Like chicken,” says Adaire dryly. She puts a hand on Hella’s shoulder and gestures back toward the road, now out of sight. “We should be heading back. It’ll be dark soon.”

Sighing, Hella consults the sky. The sun hangs low in the horizon, staining the sky red and casting long shadows on the uneven ground. The temperature has begun to drop rapidly; Hella can see her breath hanging in the air.

“Yeah, alright,” she says. “If we see any more of those birds on the way back, I’m shooting them.”

“I wouldn’t dream of stopping you.” Adaire steps back to allow Hella to pass, and they begin to make their way back to camp. It’s rough going: the path runs alongside a fast-moving stream, and in places, the bank has nearly crumbled away. The water is inky black, capped with white foam, churning over a stony bed broken up by tree roots and improvised dams. The path is narrow and twisting, half-hidden by ice and compacted snow. A trail that was difficult in the daylight becomes treacherous in the falling dark.

And Adaire is wearing cheap shoes.

She screams as she loses her footing, and Hella turns just in time to see Adaire topple into the water. She disappears with a splash and resurfaces, coughing and spluttering.

Hella drops her bow with a shout and half-runs, half-jumps down the bank, scattering ice chips and small stones. Without thinking, she plunges into the frigid water, reaching, reaching, reaching—

Gasping, Adaire reaches back. Hella’s fingers close around her wrist, and she manages to haul her out of the water. They topple backward onto the bank, and a protruding root catches Hella in the small of the back. Winded, with Adaire practically straddling her, Hella reaches up and brushes a damp curl out of the other woman’s grey eyes. Her color is high and her eyes are bright, her plush lips parted. And she looks good, _really_ good, except that she’s soaking wet and has her knee firmly planted in Hella’s gut.

“Next town we’re in,” Hella wheezes, “I’m buying you crampons.”


	2. (on the stairs, after dinner)

Maple Grove barely qualifies as a town. There are a handful of ramshackle cabins, a general store, and an inn too small to have a proper name. There is no temple to Samothes, not even a shrine. Hella goes into the dingy little store while Hadrian finds the headman to make a formal complaint about the village’s godlessness.

The store is one small room, set in front of a larger house. The windows are real glass, but cold air seeps in through the thin panes of glass, and the blankets hung on the walls provide little insulation. Scowling, Hella sticks her hands in her armpits and surveys the shelves with a critical eye. The store’s meager stock has been deplenished by the unexpected winter, reduced to maple sweets and a few moth-eaten bolts of calico. There are no crampons, no warm woolen socks, no sturdy boots.

After a fashion, Hella persuades the thin, nervous man behind the counter to sell her _his_ boots. They’ll be too big for Adaire, but she can stuff the toes with rags.

A few minutes later, Hella emerges from the store sucking on a maple candy, boots tucked securely under one arm. The townsfolk, drawn out from their snug homes to gawp at the strangers, give her a wide berth. Something to do with her size or her Ordennan features or the massive sword on her back, Hella isn’t certain.

One child, too young to know fear, escapes its mother’s grasp and darts out to touch Hella’s armor. A moment later, the mother bursts from the crowd, eyes white with panic, and jerks the child backward, apologies dripping from her lips. Laughing, Hella pats the child on the head and tosses a candy their way. The child grins back, oblivious to its mother’s horror.

Hella finds the others in the shabby inn. Throndir is eating a steaming bowl of something greyish and gleaming with grease; Adaire watches him, wonder and revulsion writ across her features. Hadrian is still smarting over his meeting with the headman, arms folded over his chest.

“Laughed me out of her office, can you believe it?” he grumbles. “These people would rather freeze than open their hearts to His holy fire.”

Adaire is about to say something sharp. Hella can see it in her face. To forestall the inevitable argument, she drops the boots and the sweets on the table. “The candy’s for sharing,” she says, and she takes the empty seat next to Adaire’s. “The boots are for you.”

Bemused, Adaire turns one of the boots over in her hands, inspecting the lacing. “They’re too big,” she says, and Hella shrugs.

“Wear extra socks.” She catches the innkeeper’s eye and gestures at her to bring over another bowl of whatever Throndir is eating. It looks like shit and smells like burnt hair, but it’s savory and hot and it fills her belly. Washed down with beer and bread, it’s almost enjoyable.

After dinner, they talk and play cards and then head up to their separate rooms. Adaire catches Hella in the stairwell, hands in her pockets. “I never said ‘thank you,’” she says. “For the boots.” The warm lamplight picks out strands of red in her dark hair.

Hella swallows. “It’s nothing. I was getting tired of saving your ass.”

Laughter softens the lines of Adaire’s face. She is always attractive—apple cheeks and steely eyes—but in this moment, she is breath-taking. “Not too tired, I hope,” she says, smiling.

“Um.” Hella’s mind has gone unhelpfully blank. This close, she can smell the sweet spice of Adaire’s body, the rosewater-and-violent scent of her perfume. “No. Not yet.”

Adaire wets her lips and tilts her head back slightly, and Hella’s eyes are drawn to her mouth. She makes a small, soft noise and reaches out to adjust Hella’s collar.

Heat rising in her face, she jerks backward, stumbling over her own feet. “Good night!” says Hella, voice strained and bright with false cheer. Panicking, she shoves past Adaire and flees up the stairs to her room.

Once inside, she locks the door and leans against it, eyes shut. Blood pounds in her ears, and she counts her breaths and waits for her heartrate to return to normal. Unbidden, she recalls Adaire’s face in excruciating detail: the freckles dancing across the bridge of her nose, the warm rich brown of her skin, the icy grey of her eyes, the fullness and softness of her lips.

Breathing hard, Hella pushes back from the door and attempts to distract herself with calisthenics. By the time she crawls into bed, she is sweat-soaked and sore, but no calmer. She falls asleep and dreams of Adaire’s long, dark lashes.


	3. (by the fire, late at night)

Hadrian shakes Hella awake at the midpoint between dusk and dawn. Yawning, barely able to keep her eyes open, she dresses and straps on her armor and sword. She stumbles out into the darkness, rubbing the sleep from her eyes, and takes up position beside the dying fire.

The woods are dark and silent. The wind stirs the branches, but there are no bird calls, no croaks and chirps from crickets and tree frogs. Even the wolves are silent.

Hella shivers and draws her cape more closely about herself, staring out into the forest. The fire’s light does not extend much beyond the tree line—the forest is cloaked in shadow and silence, the grey trees transformed into silent sentinels by the gloom. The quiet pervades, eerie and expansive, and it leaves Hella too much room for her own thoughts.

Driven by impulse, she stands and draws her sword. The blade gleams in the firelight, bright and beautiful. Just holding it is a comfort—the familiar weight of it drives away all introspection.

Grinning to herself, Hella widens her base and squares her shoulders. She raises the sword and moves through the first of the patterns of Ordennan-style dueling, boots scuffing against the frozen ground. She isn’t much of a duelist (her favored style is more direct and more brutal) but rehearsing the old patterns offers a welcome distraction from the silence and stillness of moonless night. She stumbles through the half-forgotten patterns, hefting her sword and cursing under her breath.

Fifteen minutes of rigorous exercise has her red-cheeked and winded, a pleasant burn in her back and shoulder. It’s not quite an ache, (although she suspects she’ll be sore in the morning) just the natural high of exertion. Her muscles sing as she transitions from offense to defense, feinting and lunging and moving in slow circles around the perimeter of the campsite.

She does not hear the rustle of canvas or the soft thud of booted feet against the cold ground. Grinning maniacally, Hella lunges and skewers an imaginary enemy, then spins on her heel to shift into the next set of patterns. She stops short when she sees Adaire, hands dropping to her sides.

“How long have you been there?” she says, chest rising and falling rapidly.

The other woman shrugs. She’s wrapped herself in a blanket, moth-eaten wool draped around her like a heavy cloak. “Not long.”

Hella shoves her sword unceremoniously into the sheath. “Did I wake you up?”

“I was having trouble sleeping.” Adaire moves across the clearing and takes Hella’s vacated seat by the fire. She perches, bird-like, on the stump Hella had been using as a stool, and wraps the blanket more closely around her shoulders.

“Throndir snoring again?”

Adaire laughs softly. “Not his fault, this time. Kodiak was farting up a storm.”

Hella goes to sit beside her. There’s only the one stump, so she sits on the ground, head level with Adaire’s knees. She looks up at the other woman, quietly studying the planes of her face.

After a moment, Adaire reaches out to stroke Hella’s hair. It’s the sort of casual companionship that has been much absent since Hella left Ordenna, and it takes everything she has not to lean into Adaire and wrap her arms around her.

“Tired?” says Adaire, twisting one of Hella’s curls around her fingers.

Hella nods, eyes falling shut. “It’s been a long week,” she says, heart beating a tattoo against her breastbone.

Adaire _hmm_ ’s. “Wanna talk about it?”

“No.”

“Fair enough,” says Adaire, and she doesn’t try to force the conversation. Silence resettles itself around them, but it’s a companionable sort of quiet, nothing at all like the deathly still of the dark woods. They sit together and they do not speak. Hella looks up at the other woman and tries to memorize her features: the slope of her nose and the curve of her mouth, the angle of her brows and the downy, colorless hairs on her chin and cheeks. Her presence is gentle and steady, a quiet sort of intimacy.

Hella heaves a sigh and wishes for intimacy of a different sort.


	4. (in a rented room, after the battle)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains depictions of (bad, unsafe) medical treatment, including medicinal drug usage. Please do not "yank" arrows out of anyone's shoulder.
> 
> This chapter is also kind of angstier than the others--dont worry, well be back to fluff and longing on Friday! Plus the vital 'and one time she did' part ;)

“This is going to hurt,” Adaire warns, and she isn’t lying.

She wraps her hands around the shaft protruding from Hella’s shoulder and _yanks_. Hella bites back a scream as the arrow comes away in Adaire’s hands. There’s _chunks_ clinging to the serrated head, clotted bits of blood and tissue, and the world goes grey for a few minutes. The cobwebby ceiling swims in and out of focus and Hella thinks vaguely that she might be sick. She screws her eyes shut, breathing shallowly while Adaire presses a clean rag to her injured shoulder.

The cloth is saturated with a cooling, stinging liquid. There’s a moment of searing heat, and then numbness radiates outward from Hella’s wound. Some of the tension drains from her aching body, and she opens her mouth to ask Adaire what the miraculous, pine-sweet poultice is.

Instead of answering, Adaire pours a dose of something thick and sweet-tasting down Hella’s throat. A few minutes later, a delicious warmth blooms in her gut, unfurling like a flower. The pain flutters and fades, and for the first time since the arrow went through her shoulder, Hella can focus on something outside herself.

Adaire stands over her, flush with triumph, dark curls coming loose from her braid. She’s bleeding freely from a gash on her forehead, blood trickling down between her eyes. Hella gasps and struggles to sit up. “You’re hurt!” she says, and her tongue is leaden in her mouth.

“I just pulled an arrow out of your shoulder.” Adaire’s voice drifts to Hella on the breeze. She is somehow remote despite her proximity.

Eyes filling with tears, Hella reaches clumsily for Adaire’s hand. “You’re too important to get hurt,” she slurs. “I have to protect you.”

The other woman smiles and extracts her hand from Hella’s grasp. She begins to speak in a low, sweet voice, but her words blur and run together like ink in the rain. Hella sinks back into her bed and focuses instead on Adaire’s hands, watching as she packs up her kit. Curved needle, spool of catgut, amber bottles with cork stoppers. Hella tries to raise her arms and feels the tug of stitches. She frowns, trying and failing to remember when the other woman sewed her wound closed.

Adaire laughs. “You’re really high right now,” she says fondly.

Hella opens her mouth and closes it again. Her thoughts are a mess, but what she’s feeling is _thank you_ and _I’m glad you’re here_ and _don’t go_.

What she says is, “I love you.”

Adaire stiffens. And even through the haze of poppy and pain, Hella can see her blushing. “You don’t mean that,” she says.

“I do,” Hella insists, her voice clotted with emotion. She tries to sit up again, and Adaire leans forward to restrain her, to push her back down onto the bed.

For a moment, Adaire is so close that Hella can see the flecks of gold in her grey eyes. Breathless, she tips her face up to capture her with a kiss, but Adaire turns away. Hella’s lips brush her earlobe, and she ends up with a mouthful of hair.

Dejected, she slumps back onto the bed and begins to weep inconsolably. She is only faintly aware of Adaire’s hasty retreat. By the time Hadrian enters the room a few minutes later, Hella has slipped from consciousness.

She wakes disgruntled and dry-mouthed. Hadrian occupies the chair beside the bed, and the sight of him brings a wave of crushing disappointment.

Hadrian helps her sit up and holds a cup of water to her lips. “Adaire said you’d be thirsty when you woke up,” he says, pleased.

“Where is she?”

Everything is muddied, indistinct. She remembers the flight of the arrow and the feel of it punching through her armor. She vaguely remembers Adaire’s presence but cannot remember when she left or why.

“She had an errand to run,” says Hadrian. He shrugs. “Went off to get more bandages or something.”

“Oh.” Hella slumps back against the pillows. Her shoulder pulses with dull white heat. It’s difficult to think through the pain.

Hadrian refills the water cup and hands it to her. Her grip is clumsy, and she spills half of it on herself. “You had a bad reaction to the drugs,” says Hadrian. “You were crying when I came in.”

“Was I?”

He nods. “Adaire said you were talking nonsense and then got weepy.”

Hella reddens, mind spinning. “What did I say?” she demands, unable to keep the mortification out of her voice.

“You were high out of your mind,” says Hadrian with an unconcerned shrug. “Does it matter?”

“I guess not,” says Hella, settling back into the blankets. She sips her water and tries very hard not to think about what she might’ve said or whether she might’ve meant it.


	5. (in Rosemerrow, in secret)

It is strange to be in a proper city after so long on the road. Rosemerrow is a sprawling mess, a tangled clump of ugly streets and dazzling spires. Hella’s never seen anything like it, and after a few hours of wandering, she isn’t sure that she wants to.

Adaire is utterly at ease amid the bustle and chaos. Cities are _hers_ in the same way that the wilds belong to Throndir and battles belong to Hella. She guides Hella down a crowded street, easily sidestepping puddles and potholes and piles of animal dung.

“Where are we going?” asks Hella. A pickpocket darts from an alleyway, on a collision course with Hella. They catch sight of her blade and stop short, stumbling over their feet. At Hella’s glare, they slink back into the shadows, whistling a bird call.

Adaire quickens her pace, hurrying past a constabulary’s office. “You’ll see,” she says. “It’s just up ahead.”

‘It’ is down a blind alley and over a limestone wall. They both know Adaire needs no help scaling the ten-foot wall, but she plays the damsel and lets Hella boost her up.

Together, they drop down into a snow-bound garden. An ornamental stream wanders between dormant fruit trees, crisscrossed by lacy wrought iron bridges. Topiary animals frolic through bare flower beds, broken up at intervals by standing stones placed just _so_. Through the branches, Hella catches a glimpse of a snow-covered lawn, and a manor house beyond. It’s a fanciful landscape, a staid halfling garden transformed into something rich and strange by the fallen snow.

“Oh,” says Hella. “ _Oh._ ”

Adaire grins. “Isn’t it pretty? You should see it in summer, in full bloom.”

“No, I like it like this,” says Hella. “It’s more special.” She reaches out to touch one of the snow-covered branches. There are tiny, delicate flowers underneath the heavy drifts, immaculate blossoms preserved in ice.

“Do you have anything like this in Ordenna?” Adaire leans against the wall to watch Hella explore, snowflakes catching in her black hair.

Flushing, Hella shakes her head. “No. We’re not really garden people.” The flowers feel like blown glass, impossibly fragile.

“But you have art, though,” says Adaire. “Sculpture or paintings or something?”

“Music,” says Hella. She shrugs. “Jewelry. Dunno if that counts.”

“I like jewelry.”

Hella looks over her shoulder at Adaire. “Is that a hint?” she teases. “When’s your birthday?”

The other woman laughs. “Last month, but I’m still accepting gifts.”

“Last month?” Hella’s stomach drops. “Adaire, you should’ve said something!”

“It’s not a big deal. I haven’t celebrated it in years,” she says, scuffing her toe against the icy ground.

“It’s your birthday,” says Hella, firmly. “We should do something. Get dinner, just the two of us.”

Adaire looks up sharply. “Dinner,” she repeats. “Just the two of us.”

Hella’s throat constricts and the frozen flower shatters in her hands. “Unless you don’t want to,” she says quickly. “It was a stupid idea.”

“No,” says Adaire, just as quickly. “I think that’d be fun.”

They look at one another a moment, pink-cheeked and breathless. And then there’s a shout from the manor, a sharp cry of “Intruders!”

Adaire’s head snaps around. “Shit,” she says. “They weren’t supposed to be home.” She grabs Hella’s hand and tugs her toward the wall. “C’mon,” she says. “Run!”

Hella does as she’s told. She practically throws Adaire over the wall, then scrambles over herself, rough stone cutting into her palms. She lands on her knees and then they’re off running, dashing pell-mell through icy streets. There are raised voices on the other side of the wall, and then an alarm bell rings somewhere nearby. Adaire curses and quickens her pace, too-large boots slapping against the cobblestones.

Hella follows her around a series of sharp corners, and when the other woman skids to an abrupt halt in a dead-end alley, Hella collides with her. Adaire shakes her head and tugs her into a tiny alcove, an empty niche meant for statuary or a fountain. Over the sound of her hammering heart, Hella hears a confusion of braying hounds and shouting voices.

The noise passes by the open mouth of the alley, and they find themselves alone in a stone niche scarcely large enough to contain them both. Face-to-face, chest-to-chest, they stare at one another for a moment, unsure.

“Hi,” says Adaire.

Hella’s mouth has gone suddenly dry. “Hi.”

Another moment of silence.

“Sorry,” Adaire whispers. “The whole house was supposed to be empty. Bad intel.”

“It’s not your fault,” says Hella immediately. She swallows. “It was kind of exciting, even.”

Adaire laughs. “It’s a nice change of pace to be chased by people who aren’t trying to kill you,” she admits.

Hella returns her smile. “Listen to you,” she says. “You’re starting to sound like a real adventurer.”

They fall silent, and there’s a breathless moment when they’re both leaning in, and then they’re interrupted by a cascade of caws and squawks. They turn in time to see a flock of beady-eyed birds resolve itself into a single halfling, berry-brown and dressed in ragged clothes.

“There you are,” says Fero crossly. “We’ve been looking _everywhere_ for you two.” He tilts his head quizzically, noticing for the first time that Adaire and Hella are standing close, tucked into a niche. “What are you doing?”

Grinding her teeth, Hella steps out of the alcove, into the pale, indirect sunlight. “Nothing,” she snaps. “Not anymore.”

“Well, good. Hadrian’s looking for you, and oh _man_ have you met Ephrim yet?” He rolls his eyes and makes a rude gesture. “Imagine if Hadrian was a twink and was just the worst.”

Adaire snickers, and Hella takes a half-step forward, hands twisting in convulsive throttling motions. A hand lands on her arm and she turns to see Adaire, grinning broadly. “You owe me,” she says, too quiet to be overheard. “One dinner, just the two of us.”

“Okay,” says Hella, mouth dry. “Alright.”

With a grin and a toss of her hair, Adaire goes after Fero. Hella follows a moment later, heart beating frantically.


	6. (in a god's garden, adrift)

Dinner is shredded pork in a rich, spicy sauce accompanied by slices of ripe melon and tall glasses of dandelion wine. The food is excellent, the conversation middling. Samol dominates, speaking in a low rasp about the City of First Light and a gang of long-dead thieves. The old man is a skilled story-teller, but Hella finds her attention wandering.

Adaire sits opposite her, brow furrowed. Hella’s doubts are scrawled across Adaire’s face, the same question plain in both their minds: _but what does this have to do with me?_ They exchange meaningful looks as Samol speaks, confirming one another’s skepticism. Once or twice, their legs touch under the table and the second time, Adaire hooks her foot around Hella’s calf and nudges her legs apart. She runs her toes up the length of Hella’s inseam and it is suddenly _very_ difficult to follow the thread of Samol’s logic.

The old man pays them no mind, and after dinner, he sends them out into the garden to take down the drying laundry.

“It’s a lot of house for an old man,” he says, “and I don’t get around so good, anymore. So if I’ve extra hands, I’m going to put them to work.”

There’s no arguing with his tone. Hadrian and Throndir are assigned to kitchen duty, and Kodiak joins the girls in the back garden. The dog runs laps of the back yard, chasing rabbits and marking fence posts. He takes an interest in the clean sheets, sticking wet nose and muddy paws into the basket of linens. Cursing, Adaire chases him off with a wicker carpet beater. Kodiak barks delightedly and flops onto his back, thrilled with their new game.

“Bad dog, Kodiak!” she yells, flapping her arms. “Bad dog!”

“He’s not listening,” says Hella, unnecessarily. Kodiak barks and circles Adaire, nudging at her hands and licking her palms. He sits and tilts his head expectantly, waiting to be petted.

Adaire relents, stooping to scratch Kodiak’s ears. “Why couldn’t Throndir get a cat?” she laments. “A cat would never do this.”

“A cat would do something worse.” Hella drops clothespins into a bucket hung on the fence and wads a fitted sheet into an approximately rectangular bundle.

“Don’t tell me you’re a _dog person_.” Adaire says it like a curse, punctuating her words with an eyeroll.

Hella laughs. “No,” she says. “You’re just really bad at dogs.”

“I’m perfectly fine at dogs,” says Adaire, a defensive note creeping into her voice. “Kodiak is a very bad dog.”

He interrupts with a piteous whine, fixing Adaire with a wounded look. Her frown wavers, then cracks, and she laughs softly, rewarding Kodiak with more pets. “Dumb dog,” she says fondly.

He barks again, tail wagging, and dashes off to find a stick. He brings it back and drops it at Adaire’s feet, tongue hanging out. She laughs, maddeningly beautiful, and throws the stick as hard as she can. It sails over the fence and disappears into a patch of raspberry bushes. Barking happily, Kodiak takes off after it, clearing the fence in a single leap. 

Adaire turns to Hella, grinning, eyes are alight with merriment. “I told you I was good at dogs,” she says, mouth turned up in a self-satisfied smile.

On impulse, Hella takes her by the chin and kisses her, gently.

Adaire makes a soft, startled noise and kisses back, wrapping her arms around Hella’s broad shoulders. She leans into it, standing on her tiptoes and craning her neck back, offering Hella the best possible angle. It’s sweet and soft and slow, a hundred tiny kisses strung into one long moment of warmth and pleasure. And more than anything, it feels _right_.

When they break apart, they’re both red-faced and grinning, love-drunk and pleased with themselves. “ _Finally_ ,” says Adaire. “Do you have any idea how long I’ve been waiting for you to do that?”

“Waiting for— _you_ could’ve initiated, Adaire!”

“Where’s the fun in that?” says Adaire, and she bats her eyelashes. Hella wants to be mad at her—or if not mad, at least stern—but Adaire is smiling again and Hella is close enough to count the freckles splashed across her cheeks and forehead. And now that she’s had a taste of Adaire’s lips, she’s starved for them. It is impossible to resist the other woman’s charms, so Hella doesn’t even try. Bending her knees, she draws Adaire into a tight embrace and kisses her again.

It’s the only way to make up for lost time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it, thank you all very much for reading! Title stolen from Corinne Bailey Rae's 2006 song [Put Your Records On](https://www.vevo.com/watch/corinne-bailey-rae/put-your-records-on/GB0400600001), which, for whatever reason, is my fave Adaire/Hella song.
> 
> Thanks again!


End file.
